


we're lovers and we're losers

by JaseyRae



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Memes, Oblivious Grantaire, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 16:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaseyRae/pseuds/JaseyRae
Summary: “I can’t believe this, R. I can’t believe you shot finger guns at me when I told you I liked you.”“Excuse me, what the fuck,”a.k.a.Enjolras tries to confess his feeling to R, but the latter doesn't get the message.





	we're lovers and we're losers

The Notre Dame gift shop was bustling with people, mostly tourists looking for the perfect souvenirs for their loved ones at home. In the crowd, two very french men stood out, especially the handsome blonde one, who was the most interested in the little trinkets on the shelves. The other one, who seemed more interested in the art of the monument itself, was getting more and more antsy in the overcrowded shop.

It was when Enjolras examined the fifty-something trinket that Grantaire decided to ask. “So, what are we doing here, exactly? You need a new French flag or something, Apollo?”

“If you’re going to make a joke about masturbation and the symbol of France, I am not going to be impressed.”, he replied, but without bite. Grantaire raised an eyebrow, actually impressed.

“Your mind-reading skills are getting better and better, might I say.” Enjolras gave him a _look_. Grantaire grinned amiably.

The truth of it all was that Enjolras was really trying to ask the cynic out; he asked (multiple times) Combeferre and Courfeyrac if that was a good idea, and both of them gave him a blank stare each time. While Combeferre was more condescending and patient with his dumb friend, Courfeyrac kept asking how the fuck he did not realise that Grantaire had always been in love with him and, quoting, “For someone so smart, you are impossibly dumb”. Enjolras was certain he did not deserve such bullying from his closest friends. They were right, but there was NO NEED to rub it in. Hence, the little meeting outside of Notre-Dame (Enjolras kept hearing a voice in his head saying “it’s actually a date”, and it sounded like Courfeyrac’s) who Enjolras chose because he knew that it was Grantaire’s favorite place in Paris, but he ended up blurting out that he was looking for something in the Notre Dame gift shop. Never mind the fact that Enjolras had always been very against these kinds of shops, and also very vocal about it, but Grantaire seemed to not care about the incongruence. He just asked when and where, without hesitation. Maybe that’s why Combeferre and Courfeyrac were so convinced that his feelings were reciprocated. Maybe.

However, Enjolras was stalling, and he knew it. He could take an angry crowd, could take police beatings, nights in prison, but not this. He could not tell one of his closest friends that he liked him. He was starting to feel pathetic. So, he thought that that was the right time to do it. He was wrong. He was very wrong.

“Y’know…” the blonde started, mumbling. “I don’t actually hate you that much, R”, he concluded playing with the little Tour Eiffel on the shelf, clearly avoiding the artist’s gaze.

Grantaire stopped in his tracks, and he slowly turned to stare at Enjolras. And then something happened, something Enjolras did not expect from any possible outcome. Grantaire raised both his hands, grinned, and shot finger guns at him. He. Shot. Finger. Guns. At. Enjolras. The latter was baffled, confused, and a little bit hurt.

“I mean, I get it, I’m your favorite heckler of all time”, Grantaire joked.

Enjolras rolled his eyes to the skies, wondering what he did wrong in his life to deserve this.

“Yeah, something like that”, he muttered.

_What the fuck._

 

* * *

 

 

Their little hangout at Notre Dame not only got Enjolras a more confusing situation, but also a crazy fever thanks to his light coat. He mumbled some curses at the innocent piece of clothing.  
Enjolras sneezed for what it seemed the 100th time in the span of an hour. It was unfortunate since he wanted to speak to Grantaire that same goddamn day. Damn it all.  
Living in the same apartment complex can be bothering sometimes (especially when Bahorel and Feuilly decided to get shit-faced at 4 a.m. and knock on every fucking door on their floor); however, Enjolras could not have been more grateful when he realised he was out of paracetamol, and it was the perfect excuse to go knock on Grantaire’s door. His legs felt wobbly, but the artist’s apartment was the closest one to his own, so he was quite sure he could get there without fainting. Maybe. He could certainly try. He got out of his bed, and, miraculously, managed to slip into his coat because he honestly could not deal with any cold anymore. Enjolras could deal with angry crowds, shit-faced friends (who were awfully clingy), but not with the chilly French weather. He laughed at himself. He also managed to knock on Grantaire’s door, while trying not to pass out and heavily leaning on the wall. It seemed it was after an eternity that the artist opened the door (at least to Enjolras, who also thought that the ground and the ceiling were getting dangerously close to him, at the same time). The artist was clearly in the middle of a painting, colours splattered all over his clothes, and even on his inky black hair. Grantaire hurriedly welcomed him into his own flat, making him quickly sit down on the sofa. Enjolras felt a little manhandled.

“I think your hair looks cool with colours in it”, he mumbled, gripping at the strands.

“I think that you’ve caught the flu, mighty Apollo”, Grantaire said, while putting his hand on the leader’s forehead (which was actually quite warm). The Mighty Apollo in question was starting to think that Grantaire was still not getting it. Why was Grantaire not getting it?

“I think you’re being daft on purpose”, Enjolras said, “or are you pulling a prank on me. I can’t tell right now. I cannot ever tell if it’s morning or night.” “Enjolras, are you actually ramblin-“ Enjolras made a complaining nose before dropping the Big Truth Bomb.“I can’t believe this, R. I can’t believe you shot finger guns at me when I told you I liked you.”

“Excuse me, what the fuck,” Eyes wide open, Grantaire removed his hand from the blonde’s head. “When the hell did this happen?” he asked, frazzled. “No, wait–– was it the other day, when you told me ‘Hey, R, I don’t hate you that much!’?”

“Um–“

“Enjolras, for fuck’s sake–“

“I mean, I asked Courf and Ferre for advices, but were they useful? Naaaah, R, lemme tell you something, they were useless as fuck” Enjolras slurred, while leaning towards the wall. The world was spinning too much, in his humble opinion, and he was definitely very very humble, why is Grantaire shouting his name, and why the ground is getting to close to his face–––

_Crack_.

Oh, well.

_Goodbye, nose_ , he thought hazily, _It’s been a great ride with you_.

When he opened his eyes again, it was dark outside. He had a cold rag on his forehead and a warm blanket wrapped around him. And, most importantly, he was in Grantaire’s bed. How the hell did he ended up in Grantaire’s bed? Did he actually faint like an idiot? Did he bother Grantaire?  
Before he could begin to panic or even begin to stand up, Enjolras felt a hand on his own, rubbing circles soothingly into his skin. Grantaire was sitting on a chair close to the bed, his hand on Enjolras’. He had a peculiar expression on his face as if he wanted to ask something, but could not gather the courage to actually do it. Enjolras could easily relate to the feeling. He was slowly realising that he went to the artist’s door thanks to the high fever’s boost of recklessness, and he was starting to feel embarrassed by the whole shitshow he put before.

“Are you feeling better?” asked Grantaire, quietly. Enjolras nodded, grunting a “Yeah”.

His throat felt like fire, but his mind was definitely clearer and could thing straight (no pun intended). “Did I actually break my nose?” he asked, with a light hint of worry. Grantaire snorted, “Nah, just a bit reddish, but I think you’ll live”.

Grantaire motioned to stand up, saying, “I’ll get you a glass of water!”, but Enjolras grabbed the sleeve of the artist’s black jersey. Grantaire sat down once again, dumbfounded.

“Stay.” Enjolras said coarsely. Maybe his mind was not clear as he thought. Maybe.

The artist kept staring at him with astonished eyes as if Enjolras had another head on the side, which was a stupid thought, and oh my god was he going to faint again soon-

“Is this about this afternoon?” Grantaire asked, finally diverting his gaze. “I feel like you were delirious from the fever and maybe you did not mean to-“

“I meant every single word”, Enjolras interrupted him. He raised his body into a sitting position to look at Grantaire better.

He squeezed his hand to accentuate his point. “I like you, Grantaire. I actually really really like you, and I’ve trying to tell you for a while, but I am not good with feelings, as you may realise now”, he said, his gaze never leaving the artist’s.

Grantaire was speechless. There were some beats of silence after the confession before he could actually say something.

“Please say something? I feel like I’m dying again”, Enjolras said, kind of dramatically.

Grantaire snapped out of his reverie and started babbling.

“You mean like-like?”

“What else would I mean?”

“But like, like boyfriends and all that stuff?”

“If you want, yeah.”

Grantaire seemed to ponder about this. And then he seemed to reach a conclusion, all on his own. Enjolras started to get dizzy again.

“Can I kiss you?” the artist asked.

“Aren’t you scared to get sick? I don’t want to get you ill-“, Enjolras replied before being cut off by Grantaire’s lips on his own. The kiss was chaste, but it was enough for the blonde to see stars. Or maybe it was the fever, Enjolras did not know. He just knew he was kissing one of his best friends, maybe boyfriend, while being ill and in another bed. All in all, not a bad experience.

And if someone notice that Grantaire got sick the day after Enjolras went into his room, nobody said anything. However, Courfeyrac had to pay for everyone’s dinner, for some reasons.

**Author's Note:**

> Since when I write fanfiction this long and without any porn in it????? What the fuck is happening to me???? Am i going soft?  
> Jokes aside, this AU came up to my mind in a flash while looking at the "how x answers to a love confession" and the image of Grantaire shooting finger guns came immediately to my mind. Title is from "I knew Prufrock before he got famous" by Frank Turner!  
> If you liked it, please leave a review or a kudo to let me know!


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